Safari Joe Does It Again!
by RD Rivero
Summary: What is everyone's favorite adventurer up to this time? Why hunting a very different and dangerous game. The kind of game only I could have come up with. LOL oh oh, poor WileyKat's in the wrong place at the wrong time!


Published at the Treasures of Thundera Group February 12, 2003

_:taken from my original author's notes:_

hehehe, in this one Safari's after the Thundercats (as usual) but not for the reasons you might be thinking. He's out to amass a very differnt sort of collection...note! I had to change Mule from a robot to (surprise!) ...

* * *

><p><strong>"Safari Joe does it Again!" by RD Rivero (2003-02-12)<strong>

It was a fine March day, bright and sunny, yet true to the season. Cool fronts from the arctic had settled about the steppes and valleys of the central continent. Stiff breezes howled through the bare branches of leafless trees, shivering brittle twigs from the roughened limbs to the sterile earth. Patches of snow and ice melted and trickled into streams that coursed across the forest from the deepest interiors to the farthest shores. Bird and animals, migrated or awoken from their long winter's departures, regained their autumnal dispositions and made ready for their yearly customs, their natural urges that had ensured through time immemorial the survival of their species.

* * *

><p>WileyKat and a pair of elder chieftains quietly emerged from a wooden shack at the edge of the Wollow village and slowly trekked to the outskirts of the settlement – to the roadside where the <em>Range Stalker<em> awaited.

"Thank you," he said, turning to the couple, acknowledging their hospitality. "I'll be back with the supplies you wanted."

"We'll welcome your return," the male native began.

"We are always and forever your ally," the female native finished.

"We won't let your fields be destroyed again – I promise you."

He shook their hands and watched them return to the assembly of straw-topped huts – their stone chimneys venting the exhausts of fires that warmed breakfasts and filled the air with homely scents of fresh-caught food.

* * *

><p>It was looking to be the start of a very dull and routine trip back to Cat's Lair.<p>

_If only I had company_, he thought with a loud sigh. _If only I had someone to talk to_.

He half-smiled, half-frowned as he boarded the _Range Stalker_. The vehicle was dusky green and built low to the ground. Its strong, rectangular lines were very unlike the sleek, feline accents of Panthro and Tygra's regular style. Indeed, it had the appearance of early Earth vehicles – overt and clunky – but it purred like a kitten and he was quite proud of it.

"You'll be my company, won't you?" he asked half-heartedly, seating himself at the steering wheel – at long last he understood the mechanic's neurotic attachment to the Thunder Tank.

In the past his sister would keep him company but as they had grown up they had grown apart. Each with their own interests and responsibilities, their paths crossed only as often as their duties permitted. Until the remainder of the Thunderian exiles were located or the Amazonians were trained to pick up the slack, the Thundercats were generally very busy trotting about the globe, defending and protecting the ways of their allies, curbing and containing the influence of their enemies. It was all too much to bear at times but that was the life he had chosen to lead – he understood and accepted it – and carried on without complaint.

* * *

><p>Mile after mile, the road unwound through dense forestry, across rugged terrain that did not readily forgive weak and unsteady engineering. Maps and charts traced the ancient footpath from the steppes and valleys to the landmark Trans-Atlas Mountains – an immense north-south range whose lofty peaks melted into the opaque mists and clouds that hovered above the western horizon. Carved amid an entangled wilderness – more blackened and brittle than lush and green – latched onto the base of the mountains was his target: the alpine pass, the gateway home. Rolling hills, desolate basins and shallow rivers were the only obstacles along his way.<p>

"Cat's Lair, Cat's Lair, come in," he spoke into a handset. "It's WileyKat."

"Cat's Lair here," a female voice replied.

"Pumyra? I left the village four hours ago and I've just reached the no-man's land."

"I've marked your progress, re-contact in four hours."

"Over and out."

He reset the timer – all too routine.

* * *

><p>Approaching a hillcrest, he hit a bump on the road. Applying the brakes, he was stunned by a sudden and unexpected explosion. Disoriented by the shock, he lost control of the vehicle and tumbled down the face of the hill.<p>

"Argh!" he yelled, as he collided against a series of large boulders. Orange-gray smoke poured out of the engines, metallic steam seeped into the cabin. "Just my luck. I wanted something different and did I get it." He opened the door to circulate fresh air and reached over to turn the power off – but it was already off. Only the radio transmitter survived the trauma. "Well, it'll have to do."

He spoke into the handset: "Cat's Lair, come in, this is WileyKat."

At once the familiar voice replied: "Cat's Lair here, what's wrong, Kat?"

"My vehicle's been disabled by an explosion – I can't tell yet if it was internal or external."

He waited for a reply – but the only answer he received was static.

"Cat's Lair, you're breaking up."

Static.

"Cat's Lair? Argh!"

He threw the handset against the dashboard – it was now useless, too.

* * *

><p>Exiting the <em>Range Stalker<em>, he inspected the vehicle's damage. The hood was dented and crumpled – it opened to reveal the engines beneath its cover. And to his surprise the machinery was undamaged: not a part was missing, not a line was broken, neither oil nor fuel leaked. It had been totally spared the effects of the explosion; indeed, whatever damage it had suffered, slight and superficial, was the result of the impact against the rocks. Dumbfounded, he looked beneath the chassis and saw to his horror gears and axles, limp and lifeless.

"Well, the power train's shot," he said aloud, rubbing his chin. He was neither a mechanic nor an engineer, but he was certain of two things: one, he was not going anywhere anytime soon and, two, the power train could not have been the cause of the explosion that crippled the vehicle.

Acting on desperate intuition, he ascended the hillside determined to obtain the answers at the site of the bump – but it was now no longer a small bump but a large crater, scattered with broken remains of flaky metal, dotted with melted fragments of threadbare wires and sprinkled with stifled embers of smoky powders.

"A mine!" he gasped, standing very, very still. "Mutants!" – it would have been just like the Plunderians to mine the region, knowing the Thundercats and their allies frequently traversed the area. If there had been one mine, there were sure to be many, many more: he would have to warn the others – and he sighed – _if only the radio worked!_

Turning back, he wanted to run – to get out of the open-air as fast as possible – but the danger of the moment had taken root and taken hold of his very consciousness. Cautiously – limb-shaking, sweat-oozing cautiously – he retraced and reconstructed his movements to the best of his ability, standing where he had stood, stepping where he had stepped. Slowly and methodically, he trudged from the hilltop to the vehicle – altogether a forty-foot extent of tundra. The steady duration of seconds lingered and extended beyond the range of minutes, hours until time itself had lost all meaning and it seemed he would never reach his broken beloved – but at last he brushed against its sides and exhaled, thoroughly out of breath.

"Dirty Mutants," he muttered.

A ship swept overhead – he feared it was the dreaded Plunderians and reached for his laser weapon. The mysterious vessel landed at the base of the hills. He realized it was neither of Third Earth origin nor of their enemy's arsenals. Weary still, he hid behind his vehicle.

The ship was immense – one-hundred feet by fifty-feet – colored shades of camouflage green that suggested it was intended to hide within jungles and forests, where at a distance perspective could have compensated for its size. But in that late-winter climate, where the world was off-gray, it would have been too, too obvious. The vessel had a dome base and an oblong body – it had two segments, a first, small forward compartment and a second, large rear section, built at an obtuse angle with respect to the first.

A platform lowered and extended – plumes of steam vented from greasy hydraulics. Two figures emerged through the opening that had been mechanically revealed: one was a bald, stocky man, dressed in fatigues of pale-yellow; the other was a tall, broad feline, scantily covered with loose cloths of green and tan hanging limply along his waist.

The man waved at the Thunderian – the pair approached him.

"Careful," WileyKat said, standing with his laser weapon. "This area's mined."

"Mined?" the mustached man asked in the most astonished of accents. "Mule! Did you hear that?" The muscle-bound cat-man nodded. "Did you scan for mines before you landed?" Again he nodded. "Excellent, excellent! My boy," he turned to the youth, "this area's safe. So, what's the problem?"

"Problem?"

"We were in the area when we intercepted your broadcast. Vehicle disabled, explosion."

"Oh, yes," he withdrew his weapon, "I ran into trouble."

The man adjusted his monocle as he saw the pistol: "Hope you're not expecting anymore of that trouble, lad."

"The place is clear, for the most part, but the Mutants – never know if we'll have any unwanted guests."

"Mutants, Mule," again the cat of off-tan hide and yellow eyes grinned and nodded mutely, "I don't think we saw any of those – but perhaps you're right, yes? Very dangerous. Could we offer you a ride to – wherever you were going?"

"That's alright, my friends should be getting here soon," he said, noting with curiosity the man's raised eyebrow. "If I could just fix this, there's nothing wrong with the engines, it's the drive train that's busted."

"Drive trains, drive trains," he muttered, tweaking his mustache as he mulled it over. "Ah! But of course! Where are my manners? I haven't introduced myself – I am Joe and this is my man, Mule."

"And I'm WileyKat, Thundercat," he said, hand extended.

"Thundercat! Thundercat, you say?" Again that unusual accent resurfaced. "Thundercat, Mule, we'll be more than happy to assist you in any which way we can, yes?"

Mule nodded.

"Now you say mines, is that how this happened?" he asked, waving to the crumpled hood of the_ Range Stalker_. "I see, I see – have you been injured?"

"I was shaken but I'm alright," he answered, rubbing his head that at that very moment ached and throbbed. The two neared – his body, his bones were weak and sore. "Odd." He eyed the feline cat-man, noting with piqued interest his exaggerated display of musculature – was it a possible injury, or was it the intimidating posture of the near-naked uber-male that heightened and intensified the wave of debilitation overcoming him? "I, I", he sighed and bowed his head.

"Come to my ship and rest a while – at least until your fellows return. Mule will look after your, vehicle, yes?"

* * *

><p>Sitting at a round table within Joe's ship, WileyKat sipped a mug of warm tea while the master of the vessel ambled about anxiously, doling out orders to Mule left and right.<p>

"You said you were in the area – to do what?"

"To collect specimens!"

He raised an eyebrow: "Specimens? You mean animals?"

"Oh, no, no – I don't do _that_ anymore."

"Anymore?" he placed his cup down – its orange concoction half-drunk.

Standing still for a moment, the stocky man leaned over a chair toward the young Thunderian: "I was the greatest gamesman who ever lived; my name was well-known throughout the galaxy. But alas I grew tired of the hunt; the chase lost its appeal to me. So now I collect a different sort of prize – a prey that is my equal."

"Oh, but, prey and specimens – are they the same or what?"

Joe smiled – like an ape.

WileyKat arose: "Have you been successful today?"

"Well, things've been a bit dry, but I hope that'll change soon. Would you like to see the fruits of my earlier quarries? I have samples of my collection." He draped an arm around the Thundercat's shoulder and gently walked from the galley to the inner display room.

The chamber's tall ceiling was adorned by circular skylights. Its walls were bare but for unfurled pennants and statuesque awards testifying and honoring Joe's exploits. Three archways at the other side of the main entrance branched into deeper portions of the spacecraft.

"Most of my trophies reside in private collections or in museums."

Stuffed and mounted in glass cages was a wild assortment of birds and animals the like he had never seen: toothy vultures, double-jawed felines and reptiles of jade and onyx scales. Under the displays were brass tags enumerating the planet and year the specimens had been 'collect' along with a picture of Joe – credited as Safari Joe – taken with the fresh catch, held by ropes or by the neck. Mule's image was no where to be seen – perhaps he had been the picture taker, perhaps not.

Upon closer inspection, he discovered that the trophies were decomposing and disintegrating through lack of proper care. Eyes were sunken, teeth were loose, claws were randomly and haphazardly stapled and hides – though treated by the arts of taxidermy – were riddled with jagged moth-holes and sharp tears, revealing hollow voids within.

"You certainly do have quite a large and varied collection," WileyKat said, stepping away from the central displays.

"I've been everywhere, everywhere, boy," Joe said, coming to his side.

Mule appeared from the rightmost of the three archways, his overt presence, dramatized by the semidarkness – the crypt-like vault's somber hues of blue and black – commanded the attention of the hunter and the Thundercat.

"I'll be right with you," Joe said, withdrawing with his companion into the shadowy darkness of the depths of the space-vehicle. "So, what is it, Mule?" he asked as he vanished – leaving the Thunderian alone like another specimen amid the trophies. "Excellent! Excellent! Our first catch of the day!" he answered an unspoken voice – his own trailing into whisper.

At that moment – at that moment more than ever – he wanted to fly – to escape – the dreadful ship, its weird crew. The ethereal creepiness, the absolute despair painted on the faces of the 'processed' animals only swelled his burgeoning feelings of melancholic dread. The discomfort that had begun as aches and throbs in his head had evolved as pangs and shivers the longer and longer he remained aboard the vessel – but it was more than physical pain that grotesquely disturbed his unquiet mind. It was unphysical, disconnected – like an extension of his consciousness. Panthro often confided privately his 'cat-senses' – Cheetara frequency suffered openly her extrasensory-despair from time to time.

Despite his inherent qualities of self-preservation, his natural tendencies to be quiet and cautious he could not tell with certainty where his ill-feelings were originating and he did not want to be rude – and he was still far, very far from Cat's Lair.

If only his sister was there, she always knew what to do.

Still – just what did he mean by _catch of the day?_ At that place, at that time of the year – what sort of animals would a tracker of Joe's reputation consider challenging? Of his hunting days – the awards, the trophies, the evidence was crudely displayed about him. But of his new hobby? Of his new specimens?

Hearing the two wander away, he took the initiative to explore the ship silently. Wandering through the leftmost archway – whose light was bright enough to hurt his eyes – he came to a short, thick passage and a partly-open hatchway. The air was cool – just slightly cooler than the vessel's normal climate that was itself slightly under body-temperature. He shivered despite the meager differential of temperature and the clothes and fur that had otherwise protected him from the winter-like world outside.

Standing inches from the doorway, he hesitated, unsure of whether to proceed further or to turn back. He could have retreated and forgotten about it – the scant views through the ajar entrance of a bright and ample chamber – and it seemed to be the most safe and obvious option since he did not want to antagonize the two, regardless of how friendly or duplicitous their intentions were. But he could not resist the profound curiosity that overtook his better judgment. He needed to see what was there – there, hidden and secret in that occult and opaque vault – for it seemed to him that it held the secret of Joe and more, much more.

He reached for the door, reacting with a jerk to its sticky, frigid skin, swinging it open without a squeal or groan to reveal a collection of very different trophies. Rows of cases, columns of tables, arranged neatly from one end of the room to the other, were filled not with animals, not with specimens but with snapshots. Pictures of humanoids – males mostly by the looks of them – taken while they lurked about their natural habitats. One or two were accompanied by mangled digits – finger-like members – preserved in blocks of resin.

It was curious, deafly curious – had the hunter turned photographer?

Under the images hung bronze plates – similar to the type that had been used for the once-living trophies except that it also listed each male figure's name. Beneath the tags were glass vials capped by cork and dangled by chains. Vials filled with clear but cloudy liquids – all the same texture, differing in volume from species to species.

"What have you done to them?" he wondered aloud. "What kind of bizarre taxidermy is this?"

Had he turned the 'specimens' into goop? Unsatisfied with the stuffing and mounting of his catch, had he devised methods to transform the men into a form that required less attention? Less care? If so – surely, a reverse-process ought to extract the men to amuse and entertain Joe and his admirers.

He examined the vials with his eyes and gasped: for within the largest shut-and-sealed case was a photograph of Mule – looking as scantily-clad as he had seen him last – complete with the oldest-dated tag and an over-filled vial.

WileyKat's heart pounded through his chest – he stepped back and back until he was stopped by another case, an _open_ case. He turned to see: centered upon its own empty shelf was an image _of himself_ astride the _Range Stalker_ – a snapshot that could have only been taken at the moment Joe and Mule initially appeared.

The tag's date was current, its vial was empty.

He aimed to flee but was stopped cold by the sudden and unexpected presence of the spacecraft's crew.

"What an excellent specimen you've brought for me, excellent indeed, Mule!"

"What sort of demonic wickedness is this? What have you done – what do you think you can pretend to do with me?"

"Pretend? Pretend? Did you hear that, Mule, pretend?" The cat-man grinned, revealing rows of sharp, barbed teeth. "I pretend nothing, boy, it's what I _intend_ to do with you," he scoffed, moving between the tall, broad feline and the Thunderian. "So, you've seen my collection? What do you think of my specimens?" he asked, his arms wide. "You were a little too easy to capture, boy, but I've learned quite enough from you to be able to," he paused for the word: "process, yes, process the others. You see, Mule and I were uncertain of the effects the gas – the _Thundrainium_ – we spiked the mine with. Oh, how bright you were, but foolish, my lad, didn't your parents teach you not to take candy from strangers?" He smiled wryly, angling his face toward the youth's: "I didn't put too much in you, figured someone of your size wouldn't need a heavy dose – only enough to incapacitate you."

Joe removed a small canister from his inner pocket – WileyKat lunged at him but Mule stopped him with but one extended arm – he pointed the nozzle at the Thundercat's face and sprayed a heavy, orange gas.

"Just enough to keep you from struggling," he said as he watched – and as the loin-clothed brute let – the youngster fall to his knees. "You see," he continued, crouching over the floor, "it wasn't enough – what, mere bodies, tanned and leathery flesh – I wanted the essence, the true power of the beast. With the body dead its animal force is simply gone – no – incomplete, unfinished. I tried my new hobby on my old prey but their weak minds just didn't respond as I had expected – so I turned to the humanoid form. You see, now, why it had become more exciting?"

"You're," WileyKat struggled to reply, "you're not –"

"Going to get away with this? But of course I am, boy, of course I am! Mule, get me his vial."

He removed a pair of leathery gloves from his inner pocket – oily-black gloves with the texture of short, thick hair around its palms.

"I collect only the finest specimens, the hardest bodies – naturally the most difficult and unwilling to comply. The greater the challenge, yes? And you Thundercats will do nicely. I'll have you all, I will. I'll conquer you all in my own little way. It won't take me long, I promise you and when the others do return" – he tweaked his mustache – "I doubt you'll be telling them anything – I very much doubt it."

He laughed maniacally as he was handed the uncorked vial.

"Now, my foolish, foolish boy," he said, leaning over the incapacitated Thunderian, "now – now, like it or not!"

The gloves snapped – the face grew nearer, closer and closer, until it had engulfed WileyKat's field of view. The madman's crazed glare, visible through the luster of the monocle, sent shivers of fear and terror up and down his spine. And the moustache, long and thick, fluttered and contorted as if alive and enthralled with the malevolent pleasure of the torment.

* * *

><p>"No, no!" he screamed as he writhed, feeling cold, sterile hands roving his body.<p>

"WileyKat!" a female voice shouted through the haze of distant horror.

"Safari Joe, Joe, Joe!" the youth shouted, thrashing his head that Cheetara and Pumyra tried desperately to hold still. "Get off of me!" He stood, nearly knocking the women to the side. "What the – where am I?" He looked about dazed, scratching his head that bled from a particular gash across his brow. Bits of glass were encrusted in the wound.

"You've had a concussion," Pumyra said, patting the cuts with a wad of peroxide. "We found you on the ground."

"Ground?"

The women's vehicles were parked at the edge of the hillcrest – his was all but buried within the mine crater that had grown to monstrous proportions since last he saw it.

"Looks like you crashed right into a mine," Cheetara said, helping him to his feet.

"But – I radioed you – you –"

"We received your transmission," Pumyra elaborated, "but your signal died after you told us you had been disabled. You must have been in a daze at the time and passed out. You hit your head on the glass." She pointed to the open door, to its smashed window.

He stared at the valley below, at the indentations on the tundra that were the only signs that he had not indeed dreamed up the encounter.

"We have to warn the others," he said, "there's a madman, he's trying to" – he paused to formulate the words – "he's trying to collect us."

The women raised their eyebrows.

He continued, incoherently: "He did something to me, I just know it and he's going to –"

"Maybe you should rest a while," Cheetara suggested.

"No, he, Safari Joe, he used Thundrainium gas on me! He knows of our weakness!"

"If there had been any large quantities of that in your system it would have set off my alarms," Pumyra explained, indicating her remote sensor.

WileyKat was about to speak when a strong but unsteady voice broke through the radio:

"Panthro to Cat's Lair, Panthro to Cat's Lair, come in! I've hit a mine."

His eyes started from his head, his ears perked through his mane.

"The Thunder Tank's totally disabled, I'll have to tow it back to –"

The transmission faded into static.


End file.
